Chapter VI: Part 6

"I am at least a one-time winner," Bodney replied. He stepped into a drug store to get a cold drink, his friend's place, he noticed after entering. The druggist came forward and thus spoke to him: "I was sorry after you went out that I didn't let you have ten dollars. I found that I had more than enough to meet the note. I can let you have it now."

Bodney shook his head. "No, I thank you--I don't care for it. I have quit borrowing."

"I hope you don't feel offended."

"Not at all. I am grateful to you for not lending it to me."

Late in the evening he went back to the office. No one was there, but soon the negro janitor came in and pointed to a damp spot on the floor. "I have washed up the blood where the man fainted and fell," he said. "The doctor brought him to all right, and there's a note on the table he left for you."

Bodney opened the note and read: "I leave for Michigan, and will be back within a few days. I don't blame you as much as I do myself. I permitted you to break away from me, but you will come back and at last be thankful. Goyle."

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*THE GIRL AGAIN.*

Bodney's "breaking away" from Goyle had taken place on the day following the night when Bradley had been robbed of his watch, and two days before the girl appeared in church to ask for prayers. On the Monday following, about noon, she appeared again, this time at Bradley's lodgings. The housekeeper answered her ring at the bell. "Ah," she said, "come in. You are Mr. Bradley's sister, I believe. I didn't see you but a moment, but I think I recognize you."

"Is Mr. Bradley here?" the girl asked.

"No, your brother has gone out. I think you can find him over at Judge Elbridge's. I don't know exactly where it is, but some place on Indiana Avenue. Anyone can tell you. I hope you haven't any more bad news for him."

The girl was shrewd and did not betray herself. "No," she said, and went away. Bradley was in the Judge's drawing room with Agnes when a servant came in to tell him that a young woman at the door wished to see him.

"Oh, a young woman," cried Agnes, pretending to pout. "Some girl you have been talking sweet to, I warrant." He had risen to go out, but he halted to lean over and say to her, "I have never talked sweet, as you term it, to anyone--except--"

"This one," Agnes broke in. "Oh, go on. Don't let me detain you."

"Probably someone connected with the church--"

"Of course, they always are. Go on, please."

"I will tell you all about her when I come back."

"Oh, don't mind me. Here's Florence. She knows I don't care. Do please go on."

Bradley went out, and not with a light heart, for his love had now entered into the stew and fretful state. The girl stood in the hall, and in the dim light he did not recognize her till she spoke. She handed him a small package.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It is yours."

"My what?"

"Your watch."

It was some time before he could speak. All ideas were as dust blown about his mind. "You don't mean to say that--you couldn't have taken it--you--"

"Let me go where I can talk to you--outside."

He went out with her and together they walked along the street. Looking back, he saw Agnes at the window, and he waved his hand at her. She made a face at him, he thought. "Now, what is it you have to say?"

"You know a man named Goyle?" she said.

"Yes, I have met him at the Judge's house."

He waited for her to proceed. "I was with him and two others the night you found me. They left me on the sidewalk because I could not go further, I have been told. Goyle went away alone and snatched your watch."

"But, my gracious, how do you know? Did he tell you?"

"For some time he has been coming to see me. He was the first man I ever went with to--a place where I should not have gone. I blush to own it, but I was fascinated by him. He asked me to marry him, and I consented. The last time he came after that night was yesterday evening. But you had taught me to despise him. I could not drive him away, however, so I sat in the room with him. His mouth had been hurt--two of his teeth were gone. He said he had fallen off a car. He said also that as soon as he got a little better he was going to Michigan. He took out his watch, one that I had never seen him have before, and I noticed that it had a broken chain. Then I remembered seeing a broken chain hanging from your pocket; and the next morning before I left your house I thought I heard you tell someone that your watch had been snatched from you. I asked him to let me see the watch, and in it I found your name. I did not return it to him--I jumped up and ran out. He called after me, and tried to catch me, but I slammed a door in his face and locked it. Then, my mother, who never did like him, ordered him out of the house."

"What is your name?"

"Margaret Frayer."

"Then, Margaret Frayer, I am sorry you brought me the watch."

"Sorry?"

"I did not wish a reward for what I had done for you."

"Oh, that--the watch is not your reward. You have saved a soul. In my heart I believe that I have found peace. I went to sleep with a prayer on my lips, and I awoke with such a joy in my heart that I was frightened. I called mother and she came running into the room, and there must have been a spirit there, for before I said a word, and before mother had seen me, for it was dark, she cried out that I was saved. She had always been worried over me; she feared that my soul was lost. And she put her arms about me and sobbed in her happiness. That is your reward, Mr. Bradley."

"Come back to the house with me," he said.

He led her into the drawing room and introduced her to Florence and Agnes. "I wish to present a young woman whom God has smiled upon," he said, and they looked at him in astonishment. He told them that he had found her wandering and had led her home. Florence took her hand.

"I may not be worthy, yet," said Margaret Frayer. "You don't know me well enough to take my hand."

"I know that you must have suffered, and that is enough," Florence replied. The preacher looked at Agnes. He wondered why she did not come oftener to his church. He wondered what she would say to the young woman.

"You are my sister," said Agnes, as if inspired, and Bradley clasped his hands and pressed them to his bosom. His heart was full.

Margaret Frayer did not remain long. "You may meet me again," she said.

"She is to become a member of my church," Bradley spoke up.

"My heart and my prayers will be with your church, Mr. Bradley," she said; "I shall remember you and be grateful to you as long as I live, but my soul tells me to go with the Salvation Army, among girls, and persuade them to work in the street when they have the time. It is not goodness alone that saves us, Mr. Bradley; goodness may be selfish--it is saving others that saves us. You know how that is. You have saved others."

"You are right," he said. "Go with the army; you can do more there."

"And, do you say so?" Florence cried. "I thought you too orthodox for that."

"Not too orthodox for the truth," he replied, bowing.

"Then," said Florence, "I think more of you than I did. I thought it was your ambition to build up a church, but I find that you have forgotten your creed to save a woman. I am coming oftener to hear you preach."

During this time Margaret Frayer stood near the door, waiting, it seemed, for an opportunity to go. The preacher looked at her, and mused upon the change that had come over her face since he had first seen her, only a short time, but a great change. The Salvation Army has a countenance and a complexion peculiarly its own, serene and pale; and so quick, it seems, is the transformation that the coarse-featured, evil-eyed woman of today may, to-morrow, have a striking refinement. "I hope you will come frequently to my church," said Bradley, taking her hand.

"Whenever I am selfish," she replied.

"You young ladies have done yourselves credit," said Bradley, when Margaret Frayer had taken her leave.

"Why so?" said Agnes. "Because we treated her kindly? Did you take us for heathens?"

"Oh, no, but women--women are so slow to forgive."

"Forgive? Why, what has she done? She simply wanted religion, and you have helped her. Oh, she might have done wrong, I don't know. But women are more forgiving now that they have taken more of man's privileges. They may become quite generous after a while." With Agnes it was innocence; with Florence it was knowledge. She divined the history of the girl; and in giving her hand felt that it was to one who had gone astray, who had suffered, and who had turned back. The Judge came in, to the disappointment of the preacher, who feared that, soon to be followed by William, the old jurist would begin anew to stir up the old straw of family humor. But William did not come, and the Judge was in no mood for joking. He had been brooding, and his brow was dark. "Florence," he said, after exchanging a few words with Bradley, "I wish you would walk out with me." She said nothing, but went out and came back with her hat. They walked in the shade of the elms, and he remarked upon different objects, but she said nothing.

"Why don't you talk, Florence?"

"Because I haven't anything to say."

"You mean that you have nothing to say to me."

"I mean that it is useless to say anything to you. Shall I say something? I will. You are an unnatural father."

"No, I have an unnatural son."

"That is not true, Judge. Anyone to see him, to hear him talk, to know him, would feel that he could not commit such a crime. Why, sometimes when I am alone it almost exasperates me to think about it; and to realize that I am in a conspiracy against him. It is cruel, and at times I fancy that I am almost as unnatural as you are."

"To be bound by an oath? Is that unnatural? Is it unnatural to have honor? I told you in the first place to protect you; I bound you by oath to protect her, his mother. That is simple enough."

"But you don't know how near I have come to the violation of that oath. More than once I have had it in my heart to tell him--but I couldn't," she broke off. "I couldn't. But he is going away, and I will write it to him, every detail of it; and I know that he will forgive me."

"You make me the criminal when I am the injured. Let us go back."

*CHAPTER XX.*

*THE PREACHER CONFESSES.*

Bradley had argued with himself that at the proper time it would be simple enough to tell the girl that he loved her, and no doubt he was right, but the time did not come. He sat beside her on the sofa, when the Judge and Florence had quitted the room, and he looked into her eyes, and the proper words arose like a graceful flight of birds, rich in bright feathers, but they scattered and flew away. He could have delivered an oration upon beauty and love, and he did; but he feared to surprise her by telling her that he loved her. He did not dream that she had discovered it coming before he felt it. It was not possible for so innocent a creature to know so much. He was a large man, and large men may have sentiment, but sometimes they lack sentimental nerve.

"You don't believe now that I talked what you termed sweet to that poor girl, do you?"

"Oh, I don't know. But I don't see why she should look at you that way even if you did--did lead her. It must have looked nice, you going along leading her. What do you suppose people thought?"

"No one--one saw me lead her," Bradley stammered.

"Oh, then it was in the dark. Led her in the dark."

"She didn't mean that I really took her by the hand and led her. I led her spiritually."

"Is that all? Where did you find her--spiritually?"

"Going--shall I say?"

"Why, of course."

"Going to the devil."

"Oh, and did she say so, or could you see for yourself?"

"I could see. Agnes--Miss Agnes, if I were not afraid of lowering myself in your esteem, I would tell you something."

"Don't tell me anything dreadful," she cried, stopping her ears. "I know it must be something awful."

He waited for her to unstop her ears, which she did very soon, and then he spoke, but on another subject. She replied listlessly, leaning her head on the back of the sofa. He told her about his church and she yawned. He had been delighted to see her in the congregation, and she yawned again. "I thought you were going to tell me about that woman," she said.

"But you stopped your ears."

"And don't you know that when a woman stops her ears it's the time when she wants to hear?"

"I didn't know that."

"You didn't? Then you needn't tell me anything."

"Yes, I believe I ought to tell you--only you."

"Why only me?" she asked, her eyes half closed.

"I don't know, but--"

"Then, why did you say only me?"

"Because I--I think more of you than of anyone else."

"Oh, if you think it's your duty you'd better tell me."

He told her, and she sat up straight, looking at him; she got up and walked slowly to the opposite side of the room, he gazing at her. He reproached himself for telling her. She was young, lived apart from the great crowd, and could not understand. He could not see her face, for she stood with her back toward him, but displeasure has many countenances, and he could see that his story had offended her. Her head was slightly bowed, and she was no doubt weeping; he heard her sob. Then she had loved him, and her love was dying. But he did not dare to go to her, to the death of the love he had murdered. Suddenly she turned about. Her face was radiant, and she was laughing. He stared at her in amazement.

"It is exactly what you ought to have done," she said.

"And I am not lowered in your estimation?"

"For being a truer man than any man I have ever known? Oh, no."

Yes, she had turned round, laughing, but there were tear stains on her checks. He did not know that she had passed through a struggle of doubt to reach laughter. Surely she was a strange creature, worthy of being loved and capable of loving; but he did not tell her that he loved her. The words were warm in his heart, but felt cool upon his lips, and he did not utter them. He talked in a round-about way, in an emotional skirmish, he afterward said to himself, and then took his leave, as the Judge and Florence had returned. Just outside he met Bodney coming in. "Oh, by the way, the very man I want to see, Mr. Bodney. I want a talk with you."

Bodney thought that the preacher was going to thank him again for the money sent to the church, to tell him how much good it had done. "I will walk along with you," he said.

"This is a peculiar world," remarked the preacher, as they strode along, side by side.

"You might almost say a damnable world," Bodney replied.

"No, not quite so bad as that." They walked on in silence, Bodney wondering what the preacher wanted to talk about, the preacher wondering how he could best get at what he intended to say. "You are well acquainted with Mr. Goyle," said Bradley.

"Why do you speak of him? Why didn't you say I am well acquainted with the devil?"

"I suppose I might as well. Do you believe him desperate?"

"In his milder moods, yes; at other times he goes beyond that--he is inhuman."

"Ah. Do you believe that he would snatch a man's watch?"

"He would snatch a woman's child. He is a beast. But you have something to tell me. What is it?"

"I will, but as I do not wish to bring someone else into the glare of scandal, you must keep it to yourself. The other night, as I was going home, a man standing under a lamppost asked me the time. I took out my watch and he snatched it and fled down an alley. I didn't notice his face, or at least I could not see it very well, and I did not recognize him, but I have recovered the watch and have been told that it was Goyle who snatched it. And you do not suppose that there is any question as to his being bold enough to do such a thing."

"Mr. Bradley, that man would do anything; he is a footpad or a sorcerer, just as the humor takes him. Now, I will tell you something. He made himself my master, so completely that at times I could not resist him. But the other day he made me an infamous proposition and I struck him in the mouth and knocked him senseless upon the floor. Blood ran out of his mouth, and it was black--black, I will swear. I left him lying there, and when I returned he was gone, but he had written a note to me, a note in which there was not a word of reproach or resentment. He said he was going away and would see me upon his return. That note frightened me, and I have been scared ever since, dreading to meet him, for I feel that he has some sort of reserve power to throw over me. I would go away, but the thought that he knows all my movements is constantly haunting me. You may smile at this and say that I ought to be stronger, that it is superstition, and that we are not living in a superstitious age, but I tell you that in his presence I feel a weakness come over me to such a degree that when I am with him I have only one strength--a passion for gambling. I have let him ruin me, soul and body; I--"

"I will pray for you," said Bradley.

"You might as well pray for rain, and nothing could be more foolish than that."

"What, you doubt the spirit of God?"

"I believe in the spirit of the devil. But this is jugglery. If he had left me a note full of resentment, or had even left no word at all, I should have felt that I had conquered him; but, as it is, I know that I am his slave."

"My dear young man," said the preacher, "you ascribe to him supernatural powers; you have permitted him to take you back into the middle ages. Such a thing is absurd, in this great, progressive city. See," he added, pointing at an electric car rushing by. "There goes the nineteenth century, and yonder," he broke off, waving his hand at a cart shoved by an Italian, "is the sixteenth century. You have let the Italian put you into his wretched cart. Get out--get on the electric car."

"Your illustration is all right, Mr. Bradley; but he has me in his cart bound hand and foot. But we have both said enough, and what we have said is not to be repeated to others. I'll turn back here."

After knocking Goyle down, Bodney had fully determined to make a confession to Howard and the Judge, but upon finding the note his will resolved itself into fear and indecision. He felt, however, that the gambling germ was dead--"germ," he muttered to himself. "Giant!" he cried aloud. It must be, though, that he would gradually gain strength, and the time for the confession was surely not far off. But he would bring disgrace upon himself and be driven out of the house. He could not bear the thought of seeing hatred in the eye of the Judge. The old man was unforgiving; had not forgiven his son, and would surely send Bodney to the penitentiary. "I can't tell him yet," he mused. "I must wait for strength. That scoundrel is thinking of me at this moment, and I know it." In the night he awoke with a feeling that Goyle was in the room, and he sprang out of bed and lighted the gas. Thus it was for three nights, and on the third morning came a letter from Goyle, not a letter, but an envelope directed by his hand, and in it was a newspaper cutting, set in the large type of the village press. "Last night, at Col. Radley's, the guests were entertained in a most novel, not to say startling, manner, by Prof. Goyle, of Chicago, who gave several feats of mind-reading. Miss Sarah Mayhew, daughter of our leading merchant, stuck a pin in the door-facing as high as she could reach, while the Professor was out of the room, and then hid the pin under the carpet. The Professor was brought in blindfolded, amid the silence which the Colonel had enjoined. He took Miss Mayhew by the hand, fell into deep thought for a few moments and then went straightway and took the pin from under the carpet, and then, marvelous to relate, ran across the room and leaping off the floor stuck the pin in the exact hole which it had occupied at the hands of the handsome Miss Mayhew. George Halbin, one of our leading lawyers, said that the feat would have seemed impossible to even a man with both eyes open. The Professor will appear at the opera house tomorrow night, and our citizens who appreciate a good thing when they see it should turn out."

"What have you got there?" William asked, standing in Bodney's door.

"Just a clipping from a newspaper telling of Goyle's wonderful mind-reading."

"Let me see it."

William read the paragraph and handed it back. "I don't believe a word of it," he said. "Those fellows will write anything if they are paid for it. It's all a lie."

"It's all true," said Bodney.

"What, have you turned spiritualist? Is the whole family going to pieces? Howard has ruined himself with French books and John is so snappish that no one can speak to him. Is that the sort of home I've found? Give me that cigar sticking out of your packet. You don't need it. Thank you. A man who believes the stuff you do don't know whether he's smoking or not. Is that John, roaring at Howard? I want to tell you that there's something wrong here. What do you keep holding that thing for? Why, you shake like a sifter at a sawmill. You are all going crazy."

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*UP THE STAIRS AND DOWN AGAIN.*

When Bodney went into the hall he found the Judge walking up and down, waiting for breakfast. His brow was troubled and dark, for Howard had just announced his determination to leave on the following day. He had acknowledged to himself that there was nothing left to hope for, and yet he had continued to hope that it all might be, as Florence believed, a vision, a nightmare, to be relieved by a sudden start. He knew that it was unreasonable thus to hope, but hope was born before reason, and will exist after reason has died of old age. As Bodney approached the old man stood with his hand pressed against his forehead. Bodney's heart smote him, but his fear was stronger than his remorse. The piece of paper, still in his hand, seemed to burn his palm, as poker money had burned in his pocket; and he felt that he was but a pin hidden under a carpet and that Goyle could find him and thrust him back into obedience. The Judge noticed the grip with which he held the slip of paper. "What have you there, George?" he asked.

"A--a--thing cut out of a newspaper." He opened his hand and the Judge looked at the slip of paper.

"But why did you grip it that way?" He took the cutting, smoothed it out, and, putting on his glasses, read it. "Ah," he said, handing it back, "that fellow. I have seen him in my sleep--last night. Tell him not to come here again."

"It has been some time since he was here."

"Don't apologize for him. Tell him that he must not enter this house again."

William came out and saw the Judge hand the cutting to Bodney. "Is it possible, John, that you believe in that nonsense, too?"

"I don't believe in anything," said the Judge.

"That's putting it rather strong," replied William. "That is to say, that when I tell you I elected Governors and Senators, you don't believe it." Bodney passed on, leaving the brothers walking up and down the hall, shoulder to shoulder.

"Did I say that I didn't believe you? What difference does it make anyway?"

"What difference does any man's record make? If a man isn't proud of his record, what should he be proud of? You are proud of your decisions--they go to make up your record. I elected Governors, and--"

"Why didn't you elect yourself?"

"That's a nice way to come back at a man--your own brother. Haven't you heard me say that there is something higher than a desire for office? Hah, haven't you heard me say that?"

"Yes, there is something higher--the roof of the board of trade."

"John, that is an unfair thrust at my speculations. But, sir, at one time I could have closed out for millions. Do you understand, for millions."

"Why didn't you?"

"Now, just listen to that. Reproaches me for not being a money grabber, for not joining the robbers to crush the weaklings. I have suffered a good deal at your hands lately, but I didn't expect that stab. It wounds me here." He halted, and placed his hand on his breast. But he went in to breakfast and ate with the appetite of a man who, if wounded, must have marvelously recovered; he joked with Agnes about the preacher; he told her that it would be her duty to take care of his numerous slippers, presented by women. "And when you have a pound party at your house I will contribute a--"

"Senator," said Howard.

"Oh, so you have broken out, have you? I thought you were too deep in the study of French literature to pay any attention to such trifles. And you have got on a reddish necktie. You'll be an anarchist the first thing you know."

"He is going away, William," said Mrs. Elbridge, and the Judge did not look up. The sadness of her voice stirred William to repentance. "Going away? I don't see how we can get along without him. He and I joke, but we understand each other, don't we, Howard?"

"Perfectly, Uncle William; and when I open my ranch out West, you may look on it as your home."

"Thank you, my boy; but I don't care to go out there again. I was once a power there, but the country is now overrun with a lesser breed, and I am afraid that I might not get along with them. I want men, such as there used to be. Man will soon be a thing of the past. The scorcher is running over him--and I want to say right here, that if one of those fellows ever runs over me, he'll get a bullet just about the size of a--a--about the size of that." He held up his thumb and measured off the missile intended for the scorcher. "You hear what I say. Why, confound 'em, if they see a man, a real man, they bow their necks and make at him, but if one of them ever runs into me, the coroner will have a job."

Howard and Bodney went down town together and opened the office, as usual, for clients who did not come, and who, if they had come, would have shaken their heads and gone away.

"Howard," said Bodney, "I told you that I was financially ruined."

"Yes, I remember, but afterward you said that everything was all right, that your fit had passed. Has it come again?"

"It didn't go away. A sort of drunkenness made it appear so. The fact is, I am in need of ten dollars, to pay a man I owe. He keeps harassing me."

"I need every cent I've got, old man, but here's ten."

Bodney took the bank note and went out. The poker microbe was not so easily to be exterminated. It had suggested to Bodney that the only way to replace the money taken from the Judge's safe was to play poker. And, why not play? He might win--he had won once, and what the cards had done they would do again. He remembered the courtesies that had been shown him at the club, the congratulation of the man at the desk when he won and the sympathy when he lost. "Couldn't make 'em stick, eh? When a man gets the hands beaten you do, he's got to lose his money. There's nothing to it. But you'll get 'em yet--you play as good game as any of them." A man of sense could see that it was a losing game from the start, no matter how honestly conducted. And Bodney, going to the club before business put on its cheerful countenance, had seen them counting the swallowings of the ever hungry box, the rake-off, the unsatisfied maw. A fairly active game would average for the house at least eight dollars an hour, so that in the end every man must be a loser. He knew all this as the others knew it, but the microbe squirmed and made him itch.

He walked toward the Wexton Club, not in a rush, for he was still fighting. Speculation urged him to play one more time, and to realize during the game that it was the last. The hunger for play was surely dying; then, why kill it? why not let it die of its own accord? Then came the memory of nights of distress, the nervous sweat of anxiety in the street, scanning faces, looking for money. He turned aside, went into a hotel and sat down. Two men were talking of a defaulter. "Yes, sir," said one of them, "everybody had confidence in him--the firm trusted him implicitly; but he embezzled and must go up for it." He mentioned the embezzler's name, and Bodney recognized it as that of a gentlemanly young fellow well known at the Wexton. He had come under an assumed name, but had thrown off this weak disguise, to indorse a check. So the players, who gossip among themselves, knew his real name, but addressed him as Jones. Bodney continued to listen. "I understand," said one of the men, "that the place where he went is a regular robbers' den." Bodney knew better than this; he knew that in the fairness, the courtesy, the good nature of the place lay its greatest danger. Men swore, it was true; cursed their luck and called upon a neighbor to testify to the fact that he had never seen such hands beaten; but for the most part, the atmosphere was genial, the talk bright and with a crispness rarely found in society. He resented this misrepresentation, and was even on the point of speaking when the men walked off. Soon afterward he went out, though not in the direction of the club; he circled round and round, like a deer, charmed by a snake; but after a time he saw the stairway, dusty and grim, rise before him. In the hall above, just as he was about to ring the bell, he thought of his short resources, only one ten dollar note, and he took out the crumpled paper and held it in his hand for a moment and looked at it, not to find the ten dollars, but the newspaper cutting. He started as if stung, stepped back and stood with his hand resting on the balustrade. The door opened and a man came out. Bodney spoke to him, and he halted. It was the offensive fellow with the white scar.

"How did you come out?"

The man opened both hands and raised them. He was not drunk now. He was sober and desperate. "They have ruined me," he said; "ruined me, and I don't know what in the name of God to do. I'll never play again as long as I live--I'd swear it on all the bibles in the world. Are you going to play?"

"I was thinking about it."

"I could have quit big winner. Say, have you got enough to stake me?" His eyes brightened, but the light went out when Bodney shook his head. "I've got just ten dollars."

"Then you won't last as long as a feather in hell." He went down the stairs, and Bodney continued to stand there, fighting against himself, with the newspaper cutting still in his hand. Suddenly, with his teeth set and both hands clenched, he ran down the stairs. At the door opening out upon the street he met the master of the game. "Won't you come back and eat with us?"

"No, I am in a hurry."

The master of the game was astonished. The idea of a poker player being in a hurry to get away from the game was almost new to him--and it was new to Bodney. But he hastened on, not daring to look back lest he might find some new temptation beckoning him to return. Passing beyond the circle wherein the lodestone seemed to draw the hardest, he felt, upon looking back, that he had escaped and was beyond pursuit. It was now eleven o'clock, and the victory must have been won at about ten minutes to eleven. He had cause to remember this afterward, on the following day, when he believed that the cause of this sudden strength had been revealed to him.

Howard was in the office when Bodney returned. "Well, did you pay your persistent creditor?"

"There was none. Here is your money; I don't need it now."

"But you will, so you'd better keep it."

"That's a fact, and I don't know how soon."

"But you say there was none."

"None. I'll explain sometime, but I can't now."

Howard did not pursue the subject further, for his mind was on his own affairs. He had settled upon taking his departure the next morning, and now he looked about the old room with a feeling of sadness. He had consulted another physician who knew his father well, and had been informed that the old man might improve rapidly in the absence of his son. This made the young man wince, but he had told the doctor that his father seemed to have an especial antipathy to him. "It is one of the freaks peculiar to diseased minds to turn upon one who has been nearest," said the physician. Howard had repeated this to his mother, and frequently she remarked it as a discovery of her own.

That evening when the young men went home there was a great hub-hub in the hall. William had just come in, covered with dust and was blowing like a hippopotamus. "If I live, I'll kill him; mind what I tell you."

"What's the trouble?" Howard asked. William had been knocked down by a scorcher.

*CHAPTER XXII.*

*TOLD HIM GOOD-BYE.*

At the breakfast table the next morning the Judge paid no attention to Howard, though he knew that his departure was to take place that day. He had striven to be genial when Mrs. Elbridge was present, and for a time had succeeded, but all effort was thrown off now.

Howard went to his room to make ready, and his mother went with him. The Judge was walking up and down in his office as they passed his door. Florence entered, and the Judge bowed to her.

"Are you going to tell Howard good-bye?" she asked.

"That's easy enough," he answered.

"He will come in here to see you before he goes."

"How do you know?"

"I know because it is not possible for him to prove so unnatural as--"

The Judge raised his hand. "Don't say it, please."

She stood looking at him. "Don't you think you ought to tell him why you have hardened your heart against him?"

"I shall tell him nothing."

"And is that the part of a true man? Is it not almost inhuman to let him suffer in ignorance?"

The Judge raised his hand and looked toward the door. "I tell you, it is to protect her. Can't you see?"

"It is well enough to protect her, but you ought to give him an opportunity to defend himself."

"There is no defense. Mind, your oath."

"Oh, I am sick of that," she said. "Every time I say a word in his behalf you remind me of a foolish vow. Judge, I am weary of this senseless and insane drama, seeing the others stumble about in the dark while you and I stand in the light. No, you do not stand in the light, I alone am in the light of truth; and if I did not think that the trip out West would be good for him. I would not let him go; I would stop him short with what you have told me and made me swear by the memory of my mother not to repeat. No wonder you put your hand to your head. It must ache. But, there, I won't reproach you."

He had sat down. She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and then looked down again. "I believe something is going to clear it all up one of these days," she said. He got up and resumed his walk. Howard's voice came down the hall: "Has the trunk gone yet?"

"I think he is coming," she said.

"Stay with me, Florence."

"No, you must face him, the injured, alone."

"I have not injured him; he has injured me."

She went out and the Judge stood there waiting for Howard. He came in, more serious now that everything had been made ready. "I am about to start for the West, sir," he said. "I can't stand it here any longer. You frown at me, and when I beg you to tell me--"

"How long do you expect to be gone?" the Judge interrupted.

"Till the day when I am to marry almost in secret, or when you send for me."

The Judge was walking up and down. He turned and replied. "I shall not send for you."

"Do you still deny us the right to be married in a church?"

"You shall never marry her at all with my sanction, and if you marry her without it, you marry out West or in there," he added, waving toward the drawing room. "There must be no guests."

"I should like to marry in my father's house, but on the prairie or in the woods will do as well; it makes no difference." He looked hard at his father, and, after a time, added: "I didn't think that a man could change so much--be so unnatural."

"None of that, sir!" the Judge exclaimed, turning upon him. "It is not for you to call me unnatural."

"Father, if I have committed a crime in your eye, why don't you tell me what it is?"

"In my eye! You must have studied long to frame that speech."

"But why don't you tell me?"

"Don't mock me, sir."

Howard looked at him, as if trying to study out something in his countenance, in his eye. "May I ask you something?"

"Why should you desire my permission since you would pay no attention to my refusal? What is it that you wish to ask?"

"May I ask if there has ever been any insanity in our family?"

The Judge started. "In our family--in my family there has been something worse than insanity."

Howard slowly nodded his head as if admitting a sad fact. "Yes, there has been the death of affection--in your family."

"Ah," cried the Judge, "the shrouding of a hope."

"The murder of a jovial spirit," said Howard.

"Don't shoot your poisonous arrows at me. Go on, away. Good-bye." He waved his hand. Howard turned toward the door, but halted, faced about and looked at the Judge with troubled tenderness. "Father, I don't know exactly where I am going, but out in the wilds somewhere to find a place for me and mine. I did not believe--couldn't have foreseen such a moment as this. It seems to me that my father is gone." He paused, and the Judge stood with his face turned away. "Shall I write to you?"

"No," said the Judge, without looking round.

Mrs. Elbridge came in and found them standing apart, the Judge still with his back toward Howard. "Howard," she said, "the cab is waiting. Judge, Howard is going away from us."

The old man turned slightly, looked at her, nodded his head, said "yes," and walked to the opposite side of the room. Mrs. Elbridge touched her forehead. "You must bear with him," she whispered. "You can see where the trouble lies."

"Yes, and it is a sorrowful thought. I can hardly believe it. And to think that he should select me as the object of his contempt."

"He will get over it soon and send for you," she said in a low voice. "A disordered mind turns against the loved one--nearly always." Then, advancing toward the old man, she said: "Judge, tell him good-bye."

"I have," replied the old man, standing with his face turned from her. She went to him and, touching his arm, said: "But not in your old way--not as you would have told him good-bye before--before you were ill."

"I am not ill," he said, without turning his eyes toward her. "I never was better in my life."

"But, tell him good-bye, please."

"I tell you I have!" he exclaimed, stamping upon the floor; and turning with his hand uplifted, he cried: "Can't you see--no, you cannot," he broke off, his hand shaking, and slowly falling to his side. "No, you cannot see, must not see. I beg your pardon for speaking so impatiently, but I am worried, Rachel; worried, and--"

"Yes, I know," she said, taking the arm which he had raised from under her gentle touch. "But, you must tell him good-bye."

The Judge struggled against her, though not with violence; the struggle, indeed, was more against himself. She led him toward Howard, who stood looking on, sorrowfully.

"Put your arm about him," she said to the Judge. "For me, please."

"For you," he said, and suffered her to put his arm on Howard's shoulder. She raised his other arm, and now he stood with both arms about the boy's neck.

"Good-bye, father," said Howard.

For a moment the old man's countenance was aglow with the light of love and sympathy; convulsively he pressed Howard to his bosom--but a horror seemed to seize him, the light of sympathy went out as if blown by a cold wind, and, stepping back, he said:

"There. Go. Not another word. Why do you continue to stand there gazing at me? Rachel, can't you take him away? I have told him good-bye to please you--now, why don't you oblige me by taking him away?"

"But, dear, have you no word for him?"

"Word, yes. Good-bye."

"No word of advice?"

"Advice! Don't mock me. Go away, please. Can't you see--no, you cannot, and why should I expect it? Now go."

"We are going," she said.

"Yes, but--I beg your pardon--but why don't you?"

She took Howard's arm and walked out, looking back as if she hoped that the Judge might repent and follow, but he did not; he resumed his walk up and down the room. Suddenly he turned. "Now, what are you doing, William?" The brother had entered and was turning over papers on the desk.

"I am looking for a slip of paper I dropped out of my pocket-book."

"You didn't leave anything here."

"That may be," said William, "but I don't know whether I did or not till I find out. A man never knows--"

"Some men never know," the Judge broke in, going over to the desk and taking a paper out of William's hand. "Go away, please." William stepped back, shocking himself from the storage battery of his dignity. "Oh, I can go, if that's what you want."

"That's what I want."

"It is? All right. John, I'll be hanged if I know what's the matter with you." The Judge was paying no attention. He was listening to a cab driving off from the door. "I say, sir, I'll be hanged if I know what's the matter with you."

"I heard what you said."

"I don't know whether you did or not. There's no living in the house with you. And last night, after I had been knocked down in the street--and I'm going to kill him if detectives can find him--last night when I merely intimated that something had taken place on the fourteenth of September, you--"

"William, are you going to begin all that over again?"

"I don't know what you mean by again. John, you talk in riddles. I can't for the life of me get at your meaning. Yes, sir, and last night you flew off like a jug handle when I told you that Carl Miller--"

"Oh, damn Carl Miller."

"That's all right. I don't care how much you damn him. He deserves it--broke a pair of boots for me and made 'em so kidney footed that I couldn't walk in 'em. But I am positive about that other date, John. It was the tenth."

The Judge looked at him, drew a long breath, and said: "William, you are an old fool."

"An old fool, John--old? Did you say old?"

"That is what I said. Old."

William sighed. "Then, that settles it. It isn't so bad to be simply a fool--for we may grow out of that as time goes on--but to be an old fool--John, I'll leave your house. I can't stand your abuse any longer. I am without means, broke, you might say, and I don't know which way to turn, except to turn my back on your ill-treatment of me. I may starve to death or be killed in the street or on some freight car, stealing a ride from misery to misery, but I am going."

"William, sit down and behave yourself."

"Never again will I sit down in your house. I have joked with you, I know, and have said a great many things that I didn't mean, but I am in deadly earnest this time. I am going away."

The Judge put his hand on William's shoulder. "Look at me," he said. "Don't leave me. I need you. I am mean, and I know it, but I beg of you not to leave me."

"Mean!" William cried. "Who the deuce said you were mean? Show the villain to me. Show him to me, I tell you."

"There, now, sit down; it is all right."

"No, sir, it is not all right, and it never will be till I find the scoundrel that called you mean. Was it Bradley? Tell me, and I'll choke him till his eyes pop out. Was it Bradley?"

The Judge smiled. "Bradley," said he, "is one of my props. He is the son of my old friend, and I think the world of him."

"Well, let him congratulate himself on his escape, for before the Lord I would choke him. It is all right, yes, sir--but, really, John, if I tell you earnestly it was on the tenth won't you believe--"

"Yes, yes; let it be the tenth."

"Let it be! Why, confound it, I tell you it was the tenth."

"All right. When you go out I wish you would tell Florence to come here."

William grunted. "Oh, I can go out. By the way, John, Howard asked me a pertinent question this morning. And it staggered me a little. He wanted to know whether there had ever been any insanity in our family."

The Judge showed signs of coming agitation, but he fought with himself as it was his custom to fight. "What did you tell him?"

"I lied, I told him no. John, do you remember the night when they came from the mad-house and told us children that father was dead?"

"Don't, William; don't. Please tell Florence to come here."

William went out and the Judge resumed his walk up and down the pathway of trouble. Yes, he did remember the night when they came from the mad-house, two men in a doctor's gig; he remembered the lamps on each side of the vehicle, eyes of a great bug, they seemed. But his father's malady had not come of inheritance, but of fever. But other men had fever and did not go mad. Could it be that he himself had been touched with the disease--touched in the eye with a vision? No, for there was Bodney. He had seen it. "My mind is sound, even in distress," he mused. "But wouldn't it have been better if I had talked to him kindly about his crime? I ought to have let him know that I saw him. No, his mother would have drawn it out of him--love sucking poison from a wound."

Florence entered the room, advanced a few paces, halted, and stood, looking at him. "Well, you sent for me and I am here."

"Yes, sit down, please."

"No, I thank you."

The Judge looked at her sorrowfully. "Did Howard tell you where he intends to go?"

Florence looked at him with a smile, but in the smile he saw bitterness. "Does it concern you?" she asked.

"I am not a brute, Florence."

"No," she said. "A brute is not unnatural."

"Don't, please. I am trying not to be unnatural. There can be a broken heart shielding a heart to keep it from breaking."

"You were a judge, a man of justice. And was it just to let him suffer in the dark? Was it right to lock your own lips and put a seal on mine. Judge, I ought to have told him in your presence."

"Don't say that."

"But I do say it. You presume upon what you are pleased to think is my strength of character. I am beginning to believe that I was weak instead of strong. Yes, I ought to have told him in your presence. I ought to have said: 'Your father, who has been a judge, has passed sentence upon you without giving you a hearing. He says you are a thief.'"

"Hush," said the Judge, in a loud whisper, motioning toward the door. "Don't talk that way to me. Ah, I have killed all the love you ever had for me."

"You have choked it and it is gasping."

"I am grieved--but it cannot be undone--the fingers are stiffened about your gasping love." He walked up and down for a time, and then turned again to her. "When you get a letter from him will you let me read it?"

"No. His heart will write to mine, and your eye would blur the words."

"Don't say that. I am not without a heart. I had a heart--it is broken." He walked off again, but turned quickly. "Florence, I sometimes wonder if my eye could have deceived me--could have lied to me."

She moved toward him, her hands uplifted, hope in her face. "A man's mind lies to him, and why not his eyes?" the Judge continued. Florence caught him by the arm and looked appealingly at him. "But your brother, Florence--your brother. He saw him, too."

"What!" she cried, stepping back. "Brother saw him! You didn't tell me that."

"I promised him I would not tell you."

"Ah, you break your promises and expect me to keep mine. I will go this moment and tell his mother."